Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“Oh no, nothing of the kind,” said he. “First of all, it would have been difficult to say that the man in question spoke, as you describe, with an accent that might be described as foreign. I only heard him say quite clearly, ‘You got it, ain’t you, you thieving bitch.’ Pardon the language. You see, he it was who accused her. And her response was all in denial.”

“Oh? Interesting. Did you see men entering her room in her company?”

“No, never, which seems curious, since our rooms were adjoining. On a number of occasions, however, we heard male voices.”

“In accusation?”

“Not that we could tell. There were no more rows, in any case.”

It is worth noting at this point that gradually Mr. Mill-house had relaxed during the last questions put to him by Sir John. However, during the next few he tensed as never before. His body seemed to coil. He shifted his position in his chair so restlessly that I should have thought him sitting on a cushion of thorns had I not often sat in it myself.

”You mentioned having seen her on the street before the night of the row. Did you see her afterwards upon occasion as you have described — loitering, on the lookout, as it might be?”

“Yes, on a number of occasions.”

“Was she sometimes in conversation with men?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, did you take note of them, sir? What did they look like? Did you see her more than once with the same man?”

“No, no, no, really. Sir John, I took no notice of them at all.” Mr. Millhouse sounded near as agitated as he appeared. “It was most embarrassing to meet her in such situations. I looked away and hurried past. I had no wish to scrutinize those she sought to tempt.”

“When you met her on the street just so,” said Sir John, “did she speak in greeting? Did she give some sign of recognition? Did she smile or perhaps nod her head?”

“No… well, yes, perhaps. I don’t know. Why do you ask such a question? Well, all right, I suppose I must answer. On a few occasions she did greet me.”

“I take it these were occasions when there was no man about.”

“Of course!”

“And how did she greet you, Mr. Millhouse? Did she seem to look upon you as a potential client?”

“No!”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because she gave an ordinary greeting as one might give a neighbor — ‘Good day, Mr. Millhouse,’ or some such.”

“And what was your response to her neighborly greeting?”

“I told you! I hurried by. Oh, I may have given her a hello in return, but I certainly did not stop to pass the time of day!”

“And why not, sir? From your description, I would say that you snubbed her. Why did you do that?”

“Because I did not wish to be seen as one of those men who passes his time idly talking to whores! I cannot make it more plain than that!”

Sir John allowed Mr. Millhouse to calm himself a bit. Indeed he did need calming. His face had reddened. For a time I thought that he kept himself seated by pure force of will. His legs twitched. He seemed to wish to leap to his feet and run from the place. But at last Sir John resumed:

“But a moment ago you asked me why I should ask you such a question. Let me tell you, I ask you such questions as these so that I may know your relation to the victim. Your wife made hers plain. Yet I have yet to understand fully your own feelings towards Priscilla Tarkin — and, for that matter, hers towards you.”

At that moment Mr. Millhouse threw a rather desperate look in my direction. He caught me staring. I had given up all pretense of separating the ancient court records into piles, so fascinated was I by the progress of Sir John’s interrogation. Mr. Millhouse turned back to Sir John then, yet for a moment he seemed quite unable to respond.

“Well, I…,” he began uncertainly. “I pitied her, of course, but I …”

We waited. But having begun, he seemed quite unable to proceed. Nothing was forthcoming. He sat dumbly for near a minute.

“Let us put that aside for a moment,” said Sir John. “Another question for you — one that should be easy to answer. And that question is this: Did you see Priscilla Tarkin alive on the night she died?”

He sighed. “Yes, she made an appearance in the Dog and Duck on Bedford Street where I was drinking with my friends. She walked through the place, seeking custom.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“She said hello.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No.”

“Who were those with whom you drank that night?”

“Mr. Oliver Goldsmith, poet, historian, romancer, and once, as I understand, physician, as well.”

“That is one. Were there others?”

“Mr. Thomas Davies, actor, author, and editor, and briefly, a Mr. Ephraim Butts, a friend of Mr. Davies, of whom I know little, having first met him only on that occasion.”

“Very good. Now, I have something here.” Sir John opened the drawer in his desk and felt about in it for a moment. He brought out a key and placed it before him on his desk. “Yes,” he continued, “this key. Do you recognize it, Mr. Millhouse?”

“Why, it looks quite like the key to our room.”

“No doubt it does. It is, I take it, the key to Polly Tar-kin’s room, for it was found in her pocket by Mr. Donnelly, together with a shilling and a few pence. Jeremy?” He turned in my direction. “I hear papers shuffle from time to time, so I assume you are still with us.”

“I am, sir,” said I.

“Would you go now and fetch your hat and coat to accompany Mr. Millhouse to Half Moon Street that he may point out to you her room. I wish you to search it, Jeremy. Learn what you can of her, those she may have known, and anything else that may be helpful to the inquiry. Feel free to bring back to Bow Street anything you deem of particular interest.”

I jumped up quickly from the station I had taken in the comer. “1 should be happy to do so, sir.” And I made to go. Mr. Millhouse gaped.

“Close the door after you,” Sir John called after me, “and wait in the hall.”

This was, for me, quite an unexpected turn. First to be given the opportunity to put questions to a witness, as I had done with Mrs. Crewton, and now to be asked to search for clues in the domicile of the victim — it was clear that Sir John was offering me greater responsibilities in the conduct of his inquiries. The prospect excited me as no other since I had been accepted as a member of his household.

My hand fairly shook with anticipation as I attempted to insert key to lock. Yet with an effort, I took hold of myself and rammed the thing home. At that point, before turning the key, I faced Mr. Millhouse, who had been hovering over me there on the narrow porch.

“Sir,” said I to him, “I must now ask you to go about your business.”

“What? Why, see here, you young — ”

I interrupted him firmly: “You heard, as well as I, that Sir John Fielding assigned this task to me and to no other. If you insist on accompanying me, I shall have to return tonight with one of the constables, who will assist me. I hope I have made myself clear.”

It seemed that I had. Mr. Millhouse drew himself up as if about to unleash an harangue, then stood baffled, quite unable to speak. I waited a decent space. Then, with a firm nod and a “good day,” I turned the key, swung the door open, and stepped inside. Then I removed the key, and closed the door firmly behind me.

The place was quite dark. I went to the windows and threw back the heavy curtains. The sudden light revealed a room of medium size, certainly larger than my own at Number 4 Bow Street, one with a small fireplace, complete with a small cookstove, at the far end. It was altogether better furnished than I had expected. The bed was good-sized and laid-over neatly with a comforter. There was a chest three drawers high, a writing table with a straight chair, a wardrobe, and two comfortable chairs for sitting, even a small rug upon the floor. All these bespoke an earlier life of some comfort. It was indeed far from the squalor of the room described by Private Sperling to which he had been taken by Teresa O’Reilly. How had “Tuppence Poll” managed to live in such a manner as this? I set about in my search to discover the answer to that question.